


The ABCs of Sex

by BRlANSMAY, newsoftheworld



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 70s brian, 80s brian, 90s brian, Angst, Bilingual, Depression, Domestic, F/M, Smile Era, Smut, Spanish, Touring, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, fem!reader - Freeform, make yourselves comfortable for the ride, more smut, one-night stand, pure indulgence baby, smile brian, smutty abcs, some are au's, tag as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-03-06 00:58:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18840370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BRlANSMAY/pseuds/BRlANSMAY, https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsoftheworld/pseuds/newsoftheworld
Summary: this has been a looooong time coming... BRlANSMAY and I have been trying to get our shit together for a collab for *ages* and this is what we finally decided upon.disclaimer—i have no idea how often this will be updated but the important this is: we're doing it





	1. The Alphabet

**Author's Note:**

> this has been a looooong time coming... BRlANSMAY and I have been trying to get our shit together for a collab for *ages* and this is what we finally decided upon.
> 
> disclaimer—i have no idea how often this will be updated but the important this is: we're doing it

**a list for reference**

 

A - asphyxiation

B - bilingual

C - cunnilingus

D - dominant

E - edging

F - fellatio

G - grope/groupie

H - hand-job

I - intimacy

J - joke

K - kink(s)

L - lollipop

M - masturbation

N - nipple-play

O - one-night stand

P - piano

Q - quickie

R - rough

S - sensory deprivation 

T - toys

U - unprotected

V - voyeurism

W - wet dreams

X - x-rated

Y - young/yoga

Z - zipper


	2. A is for Asphyxiation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all! so uh... yeah. here's the first letter. this challenge, already, is pushing me out of my comfort zone as a writer and making me really like ... evaluate my wording and shit as a writer. comments and kudos (especially comments) feed me and my will to write so ... pls help me not starve.
> 
> also... follow me on twitter @ lcngaways

***

In the years since Freddie’s passing, a new sort of weight has begun to strain your relationship. It’s clear, the way you both drown yourself in work and in other trivial distractions, as if such things could alleviate the trendemous grief in your hearts. Most days are manageable; you observe Brian working at his typical fast past, avoiding the tiny details at the height of his concentration. The less functional, uglier side of things are the days when he can’t get out of bed. The way his hazel eyes, rimmed red with tears, stare off into the distance. Too often you hear the cries, despite his valiant attempts to mask his sniffling. You have each other, though, and the two of you make due the best you can.

Days are beginning to blur together again; another city, another show - you feel like you might be losing pieces of yourselves in the whirlwind of travel. Atop of abundant feelings of homesickness, you constantly worry that the wear and tear from the road and constant performing is driving a wedge between you and the guitarist. It might just be a case of melodrama; you can’t seem to catch a good night’s rest and you know how that can make you behave, but you aren’t stupid - you see how he interacts with the members of his band, with his fans. You can’t help the way your body becomes overridden with jealousy.

Unable to read one particular evening, you find yourself picking a patch of nail polish off your left pinky, flicking it away as you tumble back into the pillows. You direly wish he’d come to bed; that he’d stop spending all night,  almost every night, tinkering away at new music. The sea of space next to you where Brian should be lapped at your heart, filling your lungs with bitter cold water; he never knew how far you drifted when he wasn’t there. Rolling out of bed, you groan as you shuffle into the poorly-illuminated living room, the strange smell of recycled air invading your sinuses. You find Brian slumped over a pile of letters, half asleep as he tries to read; a sight that once warmed your heart now made your blood thick with irritation. He was so damn _stubborn_ half the time.

“Brian.” Curtness in your tone snaps his head up, exhaustion-worn eyesight squinting defensively. “It’s the middle of the night and you’ve been at this for hours now. Come lay down with me for a little while, please.” You aren’t begging him - not verbally anyways, but you can only hope that your petition is as obvious to him as it is to you.

Silence falls like a landslide, devastation left in its wake as he neglects to provide an answer. Rage boils your blood, eyes squeezing shut as your hands ball into taut fists. You shouldn’t be angry; the anger never lasts anyway, and you always come to your senses no matter the dispute. But you aren’t willing to look past it this time.

“What is the matter with you lately? I feel like I can’t ever get a second of your time anymore.” Your fingers skirt over various papers spread over the tabletop, picking up a letter and barely scanning its contents before letting it flutter to the floor beside your feet - a petty show of your frustration. It lays there for several long minutes before the guitarist finally leans down to retrieve it.

“I’m working,” he replies, using that tone of indifference you loathe. “— it gets busy on the road, love. I’m trying to manage all of this, and us, the best I can. Honestly.” His words feel empty and only add to the murky feelings of frustration. It isn’t the first time he’s used that excuse and you’re positive it wouldn’t be the last.

In one last ditch effort to settle the score without casualties, you rise to the balls of your feet, swinging your leg over his hips so you might settle in his lap. Your skin yearns for his touch, for the burning sensation of his mouth against yours - instead, you’re greeted with an unfamiliar coldness that fills you with sadness rather than rage. You wring out your hands and try to tiptoe around your nagging thoughts, but as your frustration is replaced by anxiety, you’re unable to stop the barrage of questions that fall from your lips.

“Is there someone else?” Very early on in your relationship, with far too much prying on your end, Brian admitted his infidelity; your friends told you to leave him alone, your parents told you to leave him alone, and deep down, part of you knows you should have. But you were in love with this man and god, it was a love unlike anything you’d experienced. You loved him, and you had no doubt that he loved you too — but love doesn’t always equal monogamy, apparently. “I understand you’re on tour and you have … all these women around you all the time; things happen. If something _has_ happened—”

“Are you seriously accusing me of cheating? You moan about my time-management and now you accuse me of cheating?” He scoffs, the displeased sound thick in his throat as he retreats further from you - the exact opposite of what you wanted. “This is a joke. Absolutely a joke.”

You didn’t want a fight. You didn’t want to hurt him, you didn’t want to shout. But as you rise to your feet with blurred vision, sense and reason are the last things on your mind.

“What am I supposed to think, Brian? Sometimes you act like my presence is such a burden and a hassle.” You stop, dangerously sharp words on the tip of your tongue. “It’s as if… you wanted me to stay home.”

“If it meant I didn’t have to deal with the inconsistencies in your mood every time I do one little thing you don’t like, yes; I might have wanted you to stay home.”

His words come crashing down, the familiar feeling of ice licking at your bones as silence fills the space between you. In your pursuit of answers, blinded by your desire for truth, you didn’t realize how badly it might hurt you. Tear-stung eyes barely detect the horror on his face, the way his mouth inaudibly stammers in an attempt to backpedal. The damage is already done.

The back of your palm rubs at your eyes and you quietly usher yourself back to the bedroom, chest heaving - the threat of a breakdown imminent. As quickly and quietly as you can, you stuff your few remaining clothes back into your personal suitcase, setting it against the wall before the threat of tears becomes all too much. Heavier than bricks, you collapse into the bed, the cavern in your chest more hollow than normal. Perhaps he was right; this wasn’t a life you were cut out to live, but what was life when he wasn’t around? How could you fill days with duties and pleasures when your better half, your heart, was across the country, across the planet? But even now, in the same hotel suite, you feel worlds apart.

The door handle creaks open and then closes, clicking quietly, distracting you from your thoughts; you quickly dry your face before sitting up. Though the room is dark, you see Brian’s silhouette by the door, standing awkwardly in the threshold before continuing into the room. He sits on the opposite side of the bed, his back to you, before he exhales a long sigh and begins to speak.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fuss at you, or make you feel like I don’t want you around; you’re the only thing that keeps me grounded, sometimes.” A heavy pause. “There’s no one else, either; I don’t want anyone else. I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you as of recent.”

That was all you needed. You sit in silence for a moment, letting his words sink in. You stretch, kneeling on the bed, and carefully crawl over to the guitarist, threading your arms around his neck when you get to him. His verbal apology and affirmation was good, but you needed a little something more.

“I don’t want you to apologize with words; there are better uses for your mouth than that.”

Your forwardness draws an amused laugh from deep in his chest; he welcomes you into his arms with the familiar warmth you’ve been searching for. Your mouth greedily claims his, body arching subtly as you savor the taste of his mouth - a faint, but very distinctive taste of brandy on his tongue slowly licks its way into your mouth. You’re rewarded with a moan when your hips slowly drag over his growing erection - the much needed friction to your already sensitive clit has you repeating the action again and again, slowly screwing yourself against him. It has been days since he touched you last and, nearing a much needed orgasm, you squeeze his hips with your knees and rock yourself against his cock.

Your vision almost escapes you when a sweet heat closes around your breast, tongue swirling in languid circles around your nipple. You ache and throb, in desperate need of more. As you awkwardly try and shimmy out of your pajama pants, you find yourself begging to be fucked, and he’s all too willing to oblige.

You’re barely out of your panties when fingers slowly slip along your folds, a focused thumb circling your clit. The desperate moan that stirs in your chest brings a new look of smugness to his face. It’s painfully obvious that he’s in the mood to take his time teasing you.

“All ready for me, huh? That’s a good girl.” Your body squirms when the tip of his middle finger slowly circles your hole, pushing in to the second knuckle before retracting. In a lust-induced stupor, you watch as he carefully kicks off his jeans and wiggles out of his briefs; your clit gives a pathetic pulse when his cock is finally freed. You happily spread your legs in anticipation, busying yourself with working your clit with your pointer and middle finger.

The space between your two bodies is quickly eliminated; you’re trying to be patient in waiting for your reward, but as Brian drags the tip of his cock over your clit, you can’t help the frustrated moan that leaves your mouth. You’re done being nice about it; you push his hand out of the way and wrap nimble fingers around his cock, angling yourself to carefully guide him in. Feeling yourself stretch around the new addition to your body, a delighted whimper passes your lips, nails digging little half-moons into the soft flesh above his hips.

“Fuck me.” You didn’t need to wait or adjust - you were plenty wet enough. Both of your legs close around the guitarist’s waist, locking him in place. “God just— just fuck me, Brian.”

Amusement flickers across his features, the edges of his mouth twisting upward as his hands guide themselves along your body, tracing over your ribcage before settling in the dip of your waist. You watch, or try to watch, as he settles back on his legs and slowly moves his hips against yours, precise in the way he buries himself completely within you before pulling away, each time retreating less and less until he’s barely pulling his cock out before driving in again. Welcoming the trail of wet kisses along your jaw and neck, you lock your ankles around his waist, arms tangling around his neck and fingers disappearing into the curls at the base of his head.

At the end of the day, this was all you wanted. Just him - the fights, the ugly, the utmost of carnal desires; it’s always been him and it always would be. But now, you couldn’t help but feel there was something missing, something more. You’ve been trying to test the waters during sex lately; you both wanted to get out of your shells more often, as far as variety is concerned, but you’ve noticed Brian has a harder time with expressing himself sexually and with amping himself to do what’s asked of him. In the spur of the moment, you decide to try something out.

“Choke me.”

Predictably, Brian all but stops at your request. The beginning feelings of orgasm begin to trickle away with the pause in his thrusts. Confusion is evident on his face and, while he tries to decipher whether he heard you correctly or not, you take the opportunity to pick up where he left off; you plant your feet on the bed and roll your hips in a circle, vision spotting each time his cock brushes against your g spot.

“Did you… Ask me to choke you?” His voice is timid, touch lighter than a feather as the tips of calloused fingers ghost over the column of your throat. You wanted this more than you could physically explain.

You nod in affirmation, guiding his hand to the top of you throat, eyes pleading in an attempt to convince him to close his slender digits around your throat.  He obliges hesitantly, squeezing the sides of your throat just beneath your jaw - already the decrease in oxygen has your head spinning wildly.

“Tighter,” you whine. Squeezing your legs around his waist, you try to increase the pressure, wanting him to throw some of that beloved caution to the wind. Feeling the pressure intensify around your throat, you award him a desperate moan as your hands claw at his back and shoulders, bringing him back down so your mouth can claim his once more.

Though you physically don’t see him, you feel the change happen; his hips become relentless in their pounding and his hand is now snug around the top of your throat. Your lungs burn for air in the most satisfying of ways. Anticipation of your climax begins to build once more, that familiar coil of release winding and winding - tighter and tighter, almost ready to snap.

You try to reassure him with your breathless grunts of pleasure, sound becoming tighter and tighter as it has no choice but to remain lodged in your throat. Through foggy vision, you see him observing you and you drink the sight in happily; the way his hair plasters to his forehead and neck, covered in sweat, the delicious way his teeth holds his bottom lip in concentration. You can’t help but wonder if he knows how truly beautiful he is.

When his thumb circles over your clit, you feel your body start to succumb to pleasure, orgasm starting as a slow trickle and becoming a steady flood all at once. Your spine bows, twisting as every nerve in your body fires at a million miles a minute; Brian’s hand around your throat is blisteringly tight, and you’re thankful he’s finally realized just how much the asphyxiation turns you on. His mouth covers yours, breathing in each little whine that manages to escape from your oxygen-starved throat, returning diminutive sounds of his own, sounds just loud enough to grace your ears over the jackhammering of your heart.

Debauched and boneless, he collapses down into the sordid sheets, the muscles in your thighs twitching as Brian removes himself from you. Smiling at him, you admire the sinew of tendon and muscle that ripples across his back as he moves toward the edge if the bed, en route to the bathroom.

“You didn’t tell me you liked to be choked.” His voice is a singsong tease when he returns to the room, a warm washcloth in his right hand. He signals for you to open your legs once he’s seated and you obey happily, only narrowly avoiding a trembling moan when his fingers brush over your overstimulated clit; he offers an empathic smile, but you feel as if the action was purposeful.

“I didn’t know,” you finally answer, welcoming him back into your arms with a content hum. Securing your legs around his waist yet again, you busy yourself in twirling corkscrews of his hair around your finger as slumber begins to carefully sink into your bones. “Didn’t … Didn’t know you’d enjoy it either.”

You feel him shrug, lips pressing to the center of your forehead, the bridge of your nose, the outside of his mouth. He was trying to put you to sleep and as always, you tried to fight it. Your body, however, happily submits to the urge to sleep, contently wrapped up in the arms of the man you love.


	3. B is for Bilingual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phewwww okay, this one took much longer than expected––I think I hit nearly 6k words, oops. Anyway, this one is a bit interesting because of the language usage, but I hope the spanish/english translations don't wreck the reader experience too much. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think of this type of one-shot! I quite enjoyed writing it, and the conference referenced is one that *did* actually happen at the Sheraton in Buenos Aires in 1992, if you're interested in that type of this. ;)
> 
> (this is dedicated to gina) <3

Hastily tucking a pen behind your ear, you look both ways before dashing across the street. Two cameramen for the local news are close behind you, awkwardly bumbling along with their large pieces of equipment. Chewing on your lip distractedly, you glance up at the large hotel that looms before you, its many storeys a testament to its prestige.  _ El Sheraton.  _ The only suitable accomodation for a rockstar. Pausing on the sidewalk, you take a deep breath to steel your nerves before pushing through the rotating glass door. Now was not the time to be late––this was the biggest contractual obligation you’d managed to snag since graduating college. As a translator, it wasn’t hard to find work. But something of this calibre? Almost unheard of. 

Your sundress flutters in the breeze kicked up by the door and you run a hand down your thigh to keep the material in place. Glancing at the desk, you hesitantly approach the attendee sitting idle in his chair. His leathery forehead wrinkles as you near, tendrils of deep gray fluttering above his ears in a wispy halo.

“Perdone señor, sabes dónde está la conferencia con Brian May? Estoy con––  **_(Excuse me sir, do you know where the conference with Brian May is? I’m with––)_ ** ”

Before you can finish your sentence, the man gives an uninterested nod and points to the elevator across the lobby. “Si, por supuesto. Noveno piso, señorita.  **_(Yes, of course. Ninth floor, Miss.)_ ** ” 

You give him an appreciative smile and a “¡gracias!” before turning on your heel and crossing the marbled floor to the elevator. Punching the ‘up’ arrow once, you step back and listen anxiously to the mechanical creaking of distending cables. 

To say you were nervous would be a gross understatement. You had only been thirteen when Brian last visited your city, during Queen’s 1981 tour of South America. But their back-to-back concerts in Buenos Aires that year shook your country to its very core––in the best possible way. Your older brother was lucky enough to attend the first night, and you can vividly recall his return home–– brown eyes aglow with excitement, an insatiable grin spread across his face. He spoke of brightly colored lights, smoke machines, and dazzling guitar solos. It all sounded so magical, and so you vowed to see them perform the next time they visited––when you were older. Unfortunately, the opportunity never arose––the tragedy of Freddie’s death cut through the spirit of your lively city, spreading subdued gloom like a rain cloud over the coastline.

But now Brian was embarking on his first tour as a solo artist, and you couldn’t be more thrilled about the prospect of seeing him in person. The moment you first caught word of his plans to stop in Argentina, you pounced on the ticket vendors, desperate to solidify your spot in history. There was nothing you wanted more than to see this man on stage, playing his effortless melodies in accompaniment to his warm, raspy voice––a sound you’d come to adore.

“Oye, estás con la prensa, ¿verdad?  **_(Hey, you’re with the press, right?)_ ** ” Glancing over your shoulder, you see the cameramen approaching the elevator––a light sheen of sweat adorns the forehead of the one speaking to you. He was chubbier and shorter than his companion and sported an ambitious mustache.

You nod, wary of the uncomfortably attentive way the taller man was staring at your legs. “Soy la traductora.  **_(I’m the translator.)_ ** ”

“Bueno, bueno. Pensamos que llegamos tarde.  **_(Good, good. We thought we were late.)_ ** ” The metal doors peel open slowly and you gladly enter, pressing the button for the ninth floor with haste. “¿Estás emocionada o que? Estamos a punto de ver a  _ Brian May.  _ Dios mio.  **_(Are you excited or what? We’re about to see_ ** **Brian May.** **_My god.)_ ** ” The guy continues to ramble on animatedly, his camera sitting precariously on his shoulder. “¿Lo has visto antes?  **_(Have you seen him before?)_ ** ”

Shaking your head, you offer a polite smile as the elevator doors close. “No, esta es la primera vez. ¿Supongo que eres un fan?  **_(No, this is the first time. I suppose you’re a fan?)_ ** ” He looks to be in his thirties, so it’s possible he saw Queen in their prime.  _ Lucky. _

He nods, chuckling to himself. “Ha sido mi guitarrista favorito desde que tengo memoria.  **_(He’s been my favorite guitarist for as long as I can remember.)_ ** ” Beside him, his coworker stands silent, observing the interaction between you two with a bemused expression. You smile again, unsure of how to politely continue the conversation, but fortunately he picks up the slack and begins to describe the first time he saw Queen perform. You don’t catch a word of it, though––your thoughts are occupied with the low buzz of anticipation, a whirlpool of butterflies twirling in the pit of your stomach. With each floor that clicks by, you find it harder and harder to breathe.  _ Relajarte _ **_(Relax)_ ** _. _ As the floor number overhead flicks from eight to nine, you wonder for a split second whether you remembered to fix the kink in your ponytail that’d been driving you mad all day.

Your stomach soars as the elevator abruptly stops and lets out a cheery  _ ding _ . The two men exit as soon as the doors begin to open, the chatty one talking animatedly to his weirdly quiet friend. Lagging behind, you take a deep breath before walking out into the floor lobby. The room is large, carpeted in a light beige and decorated with tasteful furnishings, colorful flowers included. The energy is palpable, excitement permeating the air as journalists and cameramen alike bustle back and forth. There’s no sign of Brian yet, and you feel yourself relax.

It seems as though everyone is filing in and out of the big conference room at the end of the hall, so you make your way there, each step calming your nerves a bit more. This was your element––conferences were almost second-nature to you. Everything was going to be great. Spotting your contractor, Manuel, an executive for the biggest news station in town, you navigate the clumps of people until you’re next to him.

“Hola señor, siento mucho llegar tarde, ¿cuándo llegará Brian? ¿Dónde debería estar para las entrevistas?  **_(Hello sir, I’m so sorry for arriving late, when will Brian be here? Where should I be for the interviews?)_ ** ”

Manuel closes the notebook he was surveying and gives you a friendly smile. “No te preocupes, no llegas tarde. Brian debería estar aquí en cualquier momento; los fotógrafos quieren tomar algunas fotos de él en el balcón antes de comenzar la conferencia. Cuando empecemos, estarás sentada allí––  **_(Don’t worry, you’re not late. Brian should be here any moment, the photographers want to take some pictures of him on the balcony before beginning the conference. When we start, you’ll be sitting there––)_ ** ” He gestures to the left of the table at the front of the room. “––cerca de Brian y la prensa.  **_(close to Brian and the press.)_ ** ” 

You nod, trying to process all the information being thrown at you. “Okay, suena bien. Gracias.  **_(Okay, sounds good. Thanks.)_ ** ” He seems to be in good spirits, so you feel better about the chaotic environment––he has it all under control. 

A shout from behind rips you from your thoughts––you quickly sidestep a large tripod being hoisted by a disgruntled, sweaty man, the long metal legs of the device narrowly missing your head. “Dios  **_(God)_ ** ,” you mutter under your breath, running a hand over the persistent flyaways that frame your face. The conference room is large, but not  _ that _ large. The number of people milling around seems to increase by the minute––you have a sneaking suspicion not all of them are crew personnel.

“¡Brian esta aqui! ¡Todos afuera por favor!  **_(Brian is here! Everyone outside please!)_ ** ” Your heart leaps into your chest, hammering away at the confines of your ribcage as everyone begins to chatter loudly. Not wanting to seem like an over-enthused fan, you refrain from glancing toward the entryway and instead obediently file toward the balcony. 

It’s a spacious outcropping––the floor is tiled and an intricate silver railing lines the edge. Beyond is the city, buildings big and small dotting the coastline in a multicolored array. The deep turquoise of the sea is a comforting sight and you pause against the ledge to take in a deep breath of fresh air. Your fingers curl around the cool metal of the railing, eyes fluttering closed––a breeze dances along the hem of your dress and caresses your cheeks. 

“¡Aqui! Brian, ¡aqui! Si, eso es, contra la cornisa––¡perfecto!”  **_(“Over here! Brian, over here! Yes, that’s it, right up against the ledge––perfect!”)_ **

“Bien, ahora sonríe, o lo que te hagas sentir cómodo––eso es.”  **_(“Alright now smile, or do whatever makes you comfortable––that’s it.”)_ **

“Brian, ¡mira aquí!  **_(“Brian, look this way!”)_ **

Biting your lip, you turn to your left and see a swarm of photographers encircling the railing just a few feet away. You hesitantly walk toward them, lifting yourself onto your tiptoes in order to get a better view. Not that you can’t see his tell-tale mop of curly black hair, anyway––he’s a  _ giant _ . At least, he seems to be, from your vantage point. He’s wearing a horribly gaudy shirt, black and white polka dots and swirls of bright colors consuming every inch of the fabric. Beneath it he’s wearing another shirt, this one a light-blue button-up, the top three buttons left carelessly undone––as to be expected. Black skinny jeans and black clogs complete the look. Despite the unconventional outfit, he somehow manages to make it look irresistibly appealing, and your breath catches in your throat.

“Venga por acá, por favor.”  **_(“Come over here, please.”)_ **

“Is the lighting alright?” His voice is soft, almost drowned out by all the clicking of shutters. “Is this okay?”

“Si, perfecto.”  **_(“Yes, perfect.”)_ ** More flashes.

You hear a throat clear beside you––it’s Manuel. “Bien, creo que eso es suficiente. ¡Todos adentro! Adentro, vámonos.”  **_(“Alright, I think that’s quite enough. Everyone, inside! Inside, let’s go.”)_ **

Watching as Brian’s personnel surround him and usher him back inside, you catch the eye of your boss and flash a nervous grin. He nods, gesturing for you to follow him inside as well. His calm authority over the situation is reassuring and you allow yourself to be guided back in, where the photographers are resituating themselves behind video cameras. Brian is already seated at the table in the front of the room, picking at the curls on his forehead and generally looking a bit bored.

Locating your designated chair on the left side of the room, you promptly walk over and sit down, eager to get started. You know that once the conference begins, everything will flow smoothly. But until then, your nerves would continue to feel frayed like the ends of a rope.

“Señoras y señores, por favor tomen asiento. ¿Estamos listos para comenzar.?” **_(“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. Are we ready to start?”)_** Manuel stands next to Brian, his voice commanding attention over the chaotic room. Conversations are dropped to whispers and reporters take their seats in the middle of the room. Giving the reporters a thumbs up, Manuel takes his leave and retreats to the side of the room.

The first reporter, a middle-aged woman from the local news, waves her arm in the air. “Hola Brian, bienvenido. Quiero saber––¿te han preguntado más acerca de Queen que de tu trabajo como solista?”  **_(“Hello Brian, welcome. I want to know––have you found reporters to ask you more questions about Queen or about your new solo music?”)_ **

That’s your cue. “She asks, ‘Have you found reporters to ask you more questions about Queen or about your new solo music?”

Brian watches you closely, visibly contemplating the words as they leave your mouth. “I think it’s been fairly equal––I have a lot to say about the new stuff, but I’m not subverted to talking about some of the Queen stuff.” A small frown ghosts over his forehead. “For me, I don’t want to run away from the past, I want to move on––but the press won’t let me.” He lets out a bitter chuckle.

Surprised at his slightly callous demeanor, you quickly translate his response for the reporters to jot down. He toys with the necklaces around his neck, his fingers absentmindedly stroking the beads. 

The next reporter asks a question, his speech rapid. Luckily, your translation skills transcend even the most slurred of speech. “Why did it take you so many years to complete ‘Back To The Light?’” You blink, surprised when Brian makes eye contact with you.

“Well, I had no choice, really.” He laughs. “I could only work at the pace that I worked, for many reasons. Queen were very busy, and a lot of the stuff that I wrote would end up being for the band.” Pausing to let you translate his answer for the reporters, he wraps one hand around the glass of water placed before him. “But I guess the advantage to this album is that all the songs have very different atmospheres––they were written at different times, during a period in which I was on a very difficult road. So at the beginning of the album––about five years ago––although everything seemed wonderful on the face of it, I was doing very poorly. I was depressed, and so––and I mean really,  _ really _ depressed, so bad that I couldn’t get out of the bed in the morning. And as I struggled with that, I kept writing.” 

Quickly being reminded of the verbosity of Brian’s nature, you summarize his answer succinctly, excluding the unimportant mannerisms. You can feel his eyes on you again, and you desperately hope the warmth you feel blooming inside isn’t flushing the pale flesh of your cheeks.

“¿También tuviste que ser cantante?”  **_(“Did you also have to become a singer?”)_ **

Brian is visibly more relaxed than he was at the beginning of the conference, his rigid posture softening into the hard leather of his chair. His eyes flicker between you and the reporter as you translate the question. “Did you also have to become a singer? For the album.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah, definitely. Having waited all this time to do my own thing, I couldn’t let anybody else sing the songs because it had to be personal. Y’know? And I worked all these years with one of the greatest singers in the world, so I cannot pretend to try to be at that level.” This draws a laugh from you, earning a wink from Brian. You blush a feverish shade of red as he continues. “But I did work very hard at it––I will never be the greatest singer in the world, but I worked at it the way a weight trainer works on his muscles. To get the force and the range.”

A camera from the back of the room flashes as you reconstruct his response in Spanish. Brian tips back his head to take a sip from his glass, dark curls cascading down his shoulder. You nearly miss the next question because you’re too enthralled with the observation of his perfectly angled nose.

“Could you name someone who inspired your singing career?”

“Oh, well, I don’t have a career with singing yet.” Brian chuckles, and the reporters humor him by laughing in response. “But umm, well for me, Dylan is a very good example, because nobody will say that he’s a great singer. But we listen to Dylan because we love what he has to say, and his songs are very personal for us. It’s important to listen to the songs the way he sings them because then it comes across in the most authentic way.” He’s on a roll and there’s no stopping him––you hurriedly translate his fractured answer as he continues his train of thought. “And of course, in my case, I have special problems because if I want to play the guitar and sing at the same time, that’s a very sort of specialized area––it’s not too easy. For that, the greatest model is Jimi Hendrix, who managed to kind of… speak through his guitar to the people.”

It amazes you how thoughtful his responses are. A bit convoluted, yes, but altogether a stark contrast from other celebrities for whom you’ve translated. 

A smaller woman, face meek with adoration, clears her throat before offering a timid “Hola, Señor.” 

Smiling a toothy grin, Brian gives her a little wave. “Hello.”

Blushing profusely, the woman stammers out her question. 

“How come you were the only one who sang a song for the Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert?” You uncross your legs and recross them, fingers instinctively fiddling with the hem of your sundress as Brian’s eyes skim over your body.

He tilts his head. “I guess I was the only one who wanted to, umm… I actually said to Roger that he should sing, but he didn’t feel it was right. Yeah, I wanted to do something special as my kind of contribution, my gift, for Freddie. Something different than the rest of the program, I guess.” His hands move animatedly, accentuating his words every so often. 

The conference seems to speed by in the blink of an eye––you’re talking, translating questions and answers alike, but you retain almost nothing as your mind is increasingly occupied with imagining the careful way Brian might touch you, handling you are carefully as he’s handling the press. Before you know it, Manuel is calling for the last question. 

“How did you find sharing the stage with so many famous guitarists in Seville?” You remember watching the concert, televised just a few months ago––your second favorite guitarist was Joe Satriani (behind Brian) and seeing the two of them perform together provided  _ endless _ material for your dreams. But as you recite the question, you mask your adoration with an even, ambivalent tone.

Drumming his long fingers on the tabletop, Brian leans back in his chair. “Ah yes, I had a fantastic time––it was great. I was given the opportunity to organize an evening of rock guitar-playing in Seville, so I was able to choose my favorite players. What was really special for me was that I didn’t just have everybody come on and do their thing, I got interaction between the players which I think produced something unique.” Your gaze is focused on his lips as he speaks, and when he catches you staring, you quickly avert your eyes to the wall behind him.  _ Shit. _ “To me, interaction is very important. It’s kinda the name of the game.” 

It feels like the temperature in the room is steadily increasing, and you squirm in your seat as his eyes smolder against your skin. It’s unclear whether the tension you’re feeling is due to your general anxiety at coexisting with a man of his calibre, or whether it’s based on actual chemistry building between the two of you.

Applause fills the air, and you watch as Brian stands to give an awkward little bow, smiling amicably at the sea of people. The crinkles around his eyes deepen as he nods at you, a curious glint in his gaze. Your stomach churns as the reporters begin to meander around the room, everyone eager to get a word in with the famous guitarist. You can’t just  _ leave _ ––at least, not before attempting to talk to him. Or even just stand close to him, that’d be enough in itself. 

Anticipating a long line, you find the wall with your back and use it for stability as you watch the throng of people begin to dissipate. The cameramen depart first, contractually obligated to ensure the safe transport of their instruments. Then the reporters begin to disperse, the well-to-do men leaving first while the women linger behind. All the while Brian keeps a kind smile on his face, his shoulders stooped to level himself to the height of the people around him. It’s difficult not to smile, watching him considerately take his time to give his full attention to each person. A part of you feels selfish for expecting him to give you the attention you so desperately want, but an even larger part of you knows that you may never get such a chance again. Selfishness be damned.

Soon the loud chattering trickles to soft conversation, and before you know it, only a couple of Brian’s crew and a lone reporter remain. Brian steals a glance at you then looks back at the man in front of him. A pursed smile, and then––”Gracias señor, realmente es un placer.”  **_(“Thank you sir, really, it’s a pleasure.”)_ ** Brian pats the man on the back, nodding at the compliments spilling from the man’s mouth. “Que tengas un buen dia.”  **_(“Have a good day.”)_ ** The fluidity with which Brian speaks astounds you, and you feel the admiration you have for this man grow tenfold.

Grinning ear-to-ear, the man claps Brian on the back and repeats his gratitude one more time before heading toward the hallway. Your breath catches in your throat as you realize that your opportunity has arrived. Pushing yourself from the wall, you blink hard to focus your wandering thoughts. 

But Brian is the one to speak first. Stuffing his hands into his jean pockets, he offers a half-smile before approaching you. “Thank you so much for translating so wonderfully––my Spanish is alright at best, but I’m awful at understanding unless it’s spoken at a snail’s pace.” His laughter rings out above you, a wonderful sound.

You rub your arm with your hand, suddenly feeling quite bashful. “I think your Spanish sounds very good. I’m being serious!” You grin at his goofy expression. “Not everyone who visits our country cares enough to attempt to speak our language. Es muy admirable.  **_(It’s very admirable.)_ ** ” 

An odd expression passes over his face and he steps closer. Looking up at him, you’re convinced he must be at  _ least  _ half a foot taller. Your face is level with the top of his chest, impossibly tanned skin tapering off underneath the soft hue of his blue shirt. He’s so close you catch a whiff of his cologne––woodsy, with a hint of lavender.

“I have to tell you,” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Eres la mujer más hermosa que he visto con mis propios ojos.”   **_(“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen with my own eyes.”)_ **

Stunned, you blanch at his words. You search his face for any hint of teasing, but you’re only met with a deep sincerity that threatens to penetrate your soul. Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, you eventually find your voice. “I… Um, gracias, muchisimas gracias.”  **_(“Thank you, thank you so much.”)_ **  You’re blushing furiously, you can feel it, but his eyes are on you and you don’t care.

His hand reaches for your chin, his fingertips millimeters away from caressing your jaw. “I couldn’t stop looking at you, during the conference. I don’t even know if anything I said was coherent, my mind was completely consumed…” His voice drops to a whisper. “Sólo podía pensar en ti.”  **_(“I could only think about you.”)_ **

You’re painfully aware of his bodyguards still lurking in the corners of the room, but your concern for their judgement is obliterated as soon as Brian drags his thumb down the curve of your jaw. Your lips fall open instinctively, an imperceptible sigh conjured by his touch. “Te quiero.” **_(“I want you.”)_** The words escape before you can stop them, and the embarrassment you feel is a million times stronger than before. Shying away from his gaze, you look at the floor. “Lo siento **_(I’m sorry)_** , I don’t mean––”

“It’s okay, I’m flattered.” You look up again, and the absolute hunger you see in his eyes sends a shiver down your spine. He steps even closer, a hand trailing down your bare arm. “I’d love nothing more than to spend the next few hours with you.”

The implications his confession holds are enormous, and you can feel the birth of desire stirring within you. You want this. “Sera un placer, señor.”  **_(“It’d be an honor, sir.”)_ **

Visibly delighted with your response, he takes your hand in his and tugs you toward him gently. “Vamos.  **_(Come.)_ ** I can show you the wonderful amenities I’m being treated with.” With a lurid wink, he begins to lead you out of the conference room. Your feet move robotically, mind still processing just exactly what is happening. 

His hand is warm on yours, but you wish he was touching more of you, all of you. Brian leads you down the hall, clearly heading to one of the honeymoon suites reserved for stars such as himself. A desire with a strength you’ve never felt begins to consume you––you’re trembling with anticipation. Finally you reach the door in question, and Brian turns to look at you. His expression softens, a gentle smile on his lips. “¿Estas seguro?  **_(Are you sure?)_ ** ”

You feel like a bobblehead, nodding your head so aggressively you feel as though it might fall off. “Yes. Completely.”

It’s all the confirmation he needs. Swiftly opening the door with one hand, he draws you into him by your waist––suddenly your body is pressed flush against his, your back against the wall. The door shuts with a soft ‘click’ and you’re finally alone. 

Needing to feel his lips on yours, you stand on your tiptoes and offer your mouth to him. He accepts readily, claiming your lips with his own. There’s a sense of urgency about him––his mouth is firm and persistent––but you can feel the control radiating from his body. As he nibbles on your bottom lip and slips his tongue against your own, you wonder how often he gets what he wants so easily.

His fingernails drag up your thighs, teasing the hem of your dress up to your hips, You sigh against his lips, your hands running down his chest and fumbling with the buttons still intact. “This dress… me vuelve loco.  **_(it drives me crazy.)_ ** ” Pulling back, he takes your hand and guides you toward the bed in the center of the room. The lighting is dim––the curtains are drawn––but you can still clearly see the luxurious king-sized bed, immaculately made. Brain fuzzy with want, you can only grin stupidly in response to his compliment. “Me? I drive you crazy?”

Sitting at the edge of the bed, he looks up at you, hazel rings encircling his dilated pupils. “Yes. You.” Clasping your hips in his hands, he pulls you onto his lap. Your legs fall open, hugging the sides of his hips comfortably as you adjust to the new position. His arousal is overtly obvious––you can feel his erection through his jeans and you giggle softly. 

His mouth latches onto your neck, and one of his hands eases your dress strap down your shoulder. Moaning at the sensation of his mouth sucking bruises against your pulse, you grind down against him. This earns you a low groan, his wet mouth leaving a trail of saliva as he moves to your newly-exposed flesh. The dress you chose to wear this morning didn’t require the addition of a bra, and you’re eternally thankful for this as the fabric of your dress slithers down your chest. You watch as Brian drags his thumb across your nipple, his mouth parted as labored breaths punctuate the otherwise silent room.

“Fuck, Brian, please.” Whimpering as he drops his head to lap at your nipple, you grab hold of the curls at the base of his head. 

“What do you want? Usa tus palabras.  **_(Use your words.)_ ** ” His free hand is caressing your inner thigh, achingly close to where you need him most. But an even larger part of you wants to know what he tastes like––to know how it feels when he begins to lose his grasp on the control he’s so used to owning.

“I want you to fuck my mouth.” Sliding off his lap and onto the floor, you look up at him expectantly. His mouth is open in a wide ‘O,’ his hand gripping his thigh so tightly you can see the veins popping out along his forearm. Raising one eyebrow, you undo the button at the top of his jeans and pull his zipper down. Regaining his motor skills, Brian helps you pull them down his legs and onto the floor.

His hand finds itself gripping the base of your ponytail as you kneel in front of him. You glance up through your eyelashes, reveling in the tortured lust painted across his face. Maintaining eye contact, you mouth at his erection over the material of his briefs. Achieving the desired reaction––his hand tightening on your head, a loud groan falling from his lips––you drag the waistband of his briefs down with your teeth until every inch of his cock is before you. You aren’t surprised at his size, but your confidence falters for a moment as you wonder how it’ll all fit in your mouth.

You tentatively lick the underside of the head, curling around the ridge before sucking softly on the tip. The salty taste of precum swirls in your mouth, making you hungry for more. Gripping the base of his cock, you lick a firm stripe from the base to the head, tonguing at the tip teasingly. You can tell he’s restraining himself, his hand stagnant on your head. Soft keening noises reward your every movement, and you bob your head slowly before taking him in your mouth and sinking down as far as your gag reflex will allow. 

“Jesus Christ.” The words are hissed, his voice deep with need. “So good.” His hips buck slightly, the head of his cock nudging the back of your throat. You hollow your cheeks, steadying yourself against his thighs before repeating the motion. He moves more forcefully now, hips snapping up to meet each bob of your head. Tears begin to form in your eyes but you don’t care. His hand grows more persistent against your, guiding each thrust of his cock into your mouth. Looking up at him through blurry vision, a string of moans push themselves from your lungs. He looks so utterly blissed-out, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. You feel him twitch against your tongue and just as you’re about to increase the speed, he pulls you off.

“Get on the bed.” His voice is strict and commandeering, making you quiver with excitement. You quickly comply, falling onto your hands and knees on the mattress in front of him. You feel so debauched, sundress pushed to your hips, mascara smudged and hair tangled, but the pleasure you derive from being used overrides any embarrassment you might otherwise feel.

The mattress dips beneath you as he mounts the bed, placing himself just behind you. He runs a hand up your thigh, easing his thumb along the inside until it nudges the edge of your underwear, thoroughly soaked. “Que bonita. Y toda para mi.  **_(How beautiful. And all for me.)_ ** ” His voice is hushed but the praise makes you whimper. 

“Por favor…  **_(Please…)_ ** ” You arch your back, aching to be touched. Brian chuckles, toying with the waistband of your underwear. 

“Look at you. All needy, desperate to be fucked.” Kneading your ass with his hand, he tugs the material to the side and slips a finger into you. You cry out, the need to be filled becoming so overwhelming that you can do nothing but press your face into the sheets, waiting. 

The sensation of his cock sliding against the slickness between your thighs has you mumbling a string of incoherent expletives and you attempt to grind back against him. But his hand keeps your hips steady as he teases you to his heart’s content. “Te ves muy bien, preciosa.  **_(You look so good, precious.)_ ** All mine.” The head of his cock pushes against your entrance and you let out a contented sigh. Words are too difficult. As he begins to push himself into you, all you can do is grip the sheets and bite your lip––the bitter taste of blood soon greets your tastebuds. 

“Shit, you feel amazing.” His hips snap into yours, his pelvis jutting against your ass with each thrust. Rolling back onto him, you leverage yourself up with your palms to meet each stroke with equal strength. A pathetic mewl escapes your throat when Brian pulls you up by your ponytail, forcing your back to press against his chest––the fabric of his shirt is damp with exertion. “Look at me.”

You twist your neck to catch his eyes, crying out as a particularly hard thrust rocks your body. The hand that isn’t busy with your hair is digging into your hipbone, anchoring your body to his. He stares back at you, a flare of dominance kindling in his pupils. But the look he gives you is surprisingly gentle, the lines between his eyebrows softening as he watches you gasp at every movement. The hand in your hair traces your jaw, cupping your chin and guiding your mouth to his in a searing kiss, intermittently interrupted by the guttural moans spilling from his lips. You can feel his abdominal muscles contracting against your back, propelling him into you with such a strength that might’ve knocked you back to your hands and knees, if it weren’t for his hold on you. 

“Please… touch me.” Your request is a broken whisper against his lips, the buildup of pressure in your stomach becoming too much to bear. You were so  _ close _ . “Please.”

“Mm.” Cupping your breast briefly before trailing his hand down your torso, you spread your legs wider in anticipation. Brian presses kisses to the back of your neck, rolling his hips against you as his finger finds your clit. The stimulation is almost too much––you bite back a wail. “Do you want to come?”

Body trembling with the need for release, you nod numbly, feeling the cool metal of his necklace against your ear. “Por favor.  **_(Please.)_ ** ”

“Que linda.  **_(How pretty.)_ ** Come for me––that’s it.” His index and middle finger rub quick circles on your clit and you can feel the rush of pleasure begin to tug from your kneecaps. With a choked cry, you surrender to the orgasmic shock that spreads from your abdomen. Brian pulls out as you collapse into the mattress, gasping for air as your body trembles with the effort of release. You roll onto your back just in time to see Brian pump himself in his hand once, twice, before splotches of white paint your stomach and the surrounding sheets. Then he’s falling beside you, curls matted to the sheen of sweat covering his neck, a subdued grin plastered across his face. 

“Sorry for the mess.” A light blush covers his cheeks, and you smile.

“No te preocupes.  **_(Don’t worry.)_ ** ” You pull his head to yours, kissing him softly. “Gracias. Realmente, gracias.  **_(Thank you. Really, thank you.)_ ** ”


	4. C is for Cunnilingus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit shorter than the last one I wrote, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. :)
> 
> Lemme know what you think! I can't decide if I like more buildup or less, I'm trying to experiment with the confines of the concept of "one-shots" lmao

Glancing down at your watch, you groan inwardly. Exhaustion weighed heavy on your eyelids as you cling to the pole in the center of the bus, narrowly avoiding being jostled into the stout man next to you. It was already past eight o’ clock. You’d warned your boyfriend you might be late getting to his flat tonight, but even this was pushing it. Secretarial work was never glamorous, but it seemed as though the head of the firm you worked for had a personal vendetta against you and the precious time you had to spend with Brian.

Smiling softly at the thought of your shaggy-haired beloved, you look out the window and watch the buildings speed past in a blur of lifeless beige and gray. Sometimes it felt like he was the only thing keeping you from moving out to the country. You’d only met a month ago––hitting it off particularly well at a mutual friend’s birthday get-together––but there was something wonderfully addicting about him, about the way he looked at you as if he were memorizing each tiny freckle that dotted your face. He was the most caring and attentive boyfriend you’d ever had, and the sensitivity he brought to the relationship was refreshing. It helped that he was insanely attractive, too. Naturally, you’d begun to find any possible excuse to stay over at his place, and by now it was expected. He loved to tease you about using him for his convenient downtown location, but the warmth in his voice and in his touch told you he appreciated it just as much as you did.

The acrid smell of grime and body odor permeate the air, and you thank every celestial being imaginable when you notice your stop approaching. You were positively itching to get yourself out of your work clothes––the wool material of your pencil skirt wasn’t doing you any favors in the humid summer air. Shifting your purse on your shoulder, you give a strained smile to the pudgy man, who was now standing closer than before. He wasn’t even _attempting_ to hide his lewd stares. _Oh, go fuck yourself._ Maybe Brian was right––investing in a car might not be the worst idea in the world.

_Finally._ Relishing in the fading warmth of the evening air, you watch as the bus is whisked back into traffic, leaving you in a cloud of exhaust. You blink rapidly, coughing the pollution from your lungs before turning away from the street. The orange light of the dying sun encases the building before you in a golden glow––deep shadows accentuate the window wells. Fumbling for the set of keys Brian copied for you, you unlock the door that leads to the stairwell. A dim lightbulb flickers across the walls, and you hastily begin to trudge up the many flights of stairs––the stairwell to his apartment seemed too much like the setting for a horror movie, and you weren’t eager to become an actor in one of its scenes.

Each step you take is a reminder of how absolutely _exhausted_ you are. It was the end of a long week and you were in desperate need of some tender loving care. Brian, being a secondary school teacher for the time being, was often up and out of bed before you even contemplated opening your eyes. In addition, he usually spent his weekends toiling away with his band, _Queen,_ meticulously crafting what they hoped would be their debut album. This meant the amount of quality time the two of you actually got to spend together in a week was painfully short. As you reach the landing of the fourth floor, your stomach emits a low rumble. You can’t remember whether you ate lunch—you vaguely recall the consumption of a muffin at some point during the day. _I wonder if he’s left me any dinner._

The lock mercifully clicks open on the first try and you swing the door open. Soft hues of yellow light the hallway, the lamp from the living room down the hall barely illuminating the entryway. You hear the soft crackle of vinyl waft down the hall, the beautifully rich voice of Doris Day bringing a smile to your lips. You knew from past experience that Brian enjoyed listening to Doris whenever he was feeling particularly romantic.

Toeing your shoes off, you let out a small sigh as the cool linoleum soothes your tired feet. “Bri? It’s me.”

A pleasant hum is all you hear in response.

Curious, you toss your purse onto the lonely chair perched in the entryway corner and make your way down the hall, into the living room. There you find Brian, sitting cross-legged on the couch, shoulders hunched as he pours over a tattered paperback. He looks deep in thought, gnawing on his bottom lip, dark eyelashes casting shadows onto his prominent cheekbones.

The old floorboards creak under your feet, alerting him to your presence. Immediately he lifts his head—curls fall from his forehead and a toothy grin spreads across his face. “Wasn’t sure I’d be seeing you tonight, love. When you said ‘late’—” He paused, glancing at his watch for a moment, eyebrows crinkling, before chuckling. “I didn’t think you meant much past six.”

A wry smile plays upon your lips. “I know, I didn’t think it’d get this late. But you’re glad to see me, aren’t you?” Crossing the room, you stand just close enough so your knees are touching his.

“Mm.” Setting his book on the couch armrest, Brian runs his hands up your legs, fingers settling in a loose grip around your waist. He presses a faint kiss to your abdomen before looking up to meet your eyes. “How was work, then?”

Leaning into his touch, you sift a hand distractedly through his hair. “Full of the same monotonous paperwork, as per usual. God, if it weren’t for the benefits, I’d have half a mind to quit and look for something with more variety. A job as a graphic designer, maybe.” You both knew how shit you were at anything remotely requiring hand-eye coordination, especially when it came to art.

His laughter vibrates against your stomach. “I wouldn't recommend it, but you know I’d support you either way.” His nose grazes the sensitive skin between the hem of your blouse and the waistline of your skirt, eliciting a tiny gasp from your mouth.

“What is that you’re reading?” His fingers are toying with the hem of your blouse now, each brush of his fingertips sending prickles of goosebumps across your skin.

Pausing in his ministrations, he turns his head to look at the object in question. “Oh, that? Just a bit of Hesse. ‘The Glass Bead Game.’”

Laughing at the predictability in his reading material, you smooth your hands down his head and neck, massaging his wiry shoulders with your palms. “Is that the one set far in the future? The one where the narrator seems to be insinuating that smart people don’t have a right to avoid the crippling problems of humanity, or something insufferably deep like that.”

This time his laughter is much louder, echoing across the thin, olive-green, wallpapered walls. “Mhm. You seem to have it sorted.” He hums, resuming his tactile exploration along the small expanse of your exposed midriff.

Stroking your thumbs lazily across his cheeks, you bend down to find his lips with yours. He responds eagerly, tilting his head upward to meet you with the soft, persistent warmth characteristic of his kisses. Grinning against his lips, you raise one knee onto the couch, then the other, settling yourself seamlessly in his lap. The tell-tale firmness of his erection presses against your groin and you smirk. “Seems you have a few things sorted yourself.”

Dragging his hands up your thighs, he pushes the fabric of your skirt up with the motion, continuing until the material is bunched at your waist. An appreciative coo rewards your decision to forego underwear this morning. “I know where my priorities lie.”

The dull ache of arousal is beginning to spread across your body, engulfing you in the throes of mellow desire. The kisses are easy, tongues slowly darting back and forth to make way for heightened intensity. His fingers are on your blouse, teasing each button free of their clasp. You break the kiss to help him, shrugging the starch-white material to the floor.

Following the dip in your stomach with delicate kisses, Brian kneads your ass in his hands, pulling you flush against his mouth and evoking a breathy moan from your lungs. His mouth grazes over your bra, tongue nudging your hardened nipple teasingly. You try to lean down, hungry for more kisses, but Brian holds you in place. A confused noise leaves your lips and you try to grind down against him, desperate for some friction. “Bri—”

“Shhh. Let me make you feel good.” Looking up at you with pupil-blown eyes, you watch as Brian pushes your skirt up further and runs a finger across the slickness that had begun to accumulate between your thighs. “God, you’re beautiful. So beautiful for me.”

You can’t stop the whiny moans that fall from your mouth as you feel the tip of his nose brush against your clit. Tangling your hands in the dark tresses of his hair, you anchor yourself as his tongue flicks out to tease you, licking timidly at your clit before delving farther. One of his hands rests under the swell of your ass, the cold metal of his pinkie ring a stark contrast to the searing heat of his touch. His other hand presses softly into your abdomen, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above the junction of your hip. That, combined with the steady pressure of his tongue, is enough to empty your mind of any coherent thoughts.

Mouth parting in pleasure, your breaths come out in shallow gasps as he slowly circles your clit. You can feel the stress melting from your limbs, your body in-tune to each movement of his mouth. A cirrus of pleasure begins to build in your stomach, swirling deliciously as Brian trails his hand from your hip to your inner thigh, taking a moment to teasingly caress you there before dipping a finger into you.

“Shit.” Your eyes flutter closed as you savor the sensation of his index finger sliding in and out, pausing every so often to press against the ridged flesh of your g-spot. You hadn’t ever considered someone’s fingers a turn-on before meeting Brian, but now... just the sight of them—dexterously navigating the chords on his guitar’s fretboard, or mindlessly stroking a glass in his hand—sends your mind reeling with the possibilities.

Adding his middle finger, Brian fingers you slowly, mouth pausing for a moment as he catches his breath. Static fills your head, a delightful buzzing mutes your ears as you look down to see his attentive eyes watching you closely. You cup his cheek with utmost care, amazed at the beauty of the man before you––a slight flush colors his cheeks, his eyes lidded with desire. He bites his bottom lip, swollen from activity, as he returns your stare. Ensuring your eyes are still on him, he kisses the inside of your thigh, nipping gently. You gasp, tightening your grip on his hair. Desperate for his tongue to work you to the brink of ecstasy, you whimper and cant your hips forward.

Chuckling softly, Brian scissors his fingers inside you and presses his thumb against your clit. “Good things come to those who wait, you know.”

You gasp at the pressure and frown, less than thrilled about being teased. Before you can conjure up a suitably snarky retort, his tongue is lathing your clit, this time more insistent. His bony fingers dig into your ass, holding you in place as your hips begin to buck feebly. “Fuck, Bri.” _Finally._ You’re not certain, but judging by the fullness you’re feeling, you think he’s added a third finger to the mix, fucking you with methodical precision. Skin beginning to prickle with the promise of release, you moan and shamelessly grind against his tongue. Focusing his licks in short, stiff movements, he strokes your clit in a particularly sensitive place. Jerking involuntarily, your mouth drops open in a silent cry as you feel the beginnings of the familiar wave of pleasure lap at your feet.

Brian must sense the imminence of your orgasm because he tightens his grip on you, bruising your skin with his handprints. His tongue, wet and hot, flicks rapidly against your clit as his fingers curl inside you, beckoning you to give in to him. Clutching at his head, you choke on your pathetic groans as you feel your orgasm tug at the knot in your stomach, unraveling the built-up tension with one decisive swipe of his tongue. You feel yourself convulse around his fingers and suddenly you’re there, all sensation leaving your legs as the blood coursing through your veins is injected with pure dopamine. Swaying dangerously against him, you squeak out a warning before you collapse against him, the two of you falling haphazardly against the couch cushions.

“Mmfph.” Head hazy with the afterglow, it takes a moment to register Brian’s plea.

“Oh!” Hastily removing your leg from its awkward position against his mouth, you detangle your limbs from his and slump down next to him. “Sorry.” Giggling, you turn to see a very disheveled-looking face.

“I suppose being crushed by your thighs wouldn’t be the worst way to go.” Grinning cheekily, he gives your cheek a quick peck before sitting up. “Fancy a bit of tea?”

Body still reverberating from the shock, you blink at him. “Don’t you want me to…?” You gesture toward the neglected bulge in his trousers.

Smiling softly, he reaches down to caress your chin before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I'm perfectly capable of taking care of it myself, love. Don't worry about me. I'll put the kettle on—you look as though you could use a bit of rest.”

Beaming adoringly at your boyfriend, you nod. As you watch him wander out of the living room, socked feet quietly padding against the old floorboards, you briefly contemplate whether the deep affection you’re feeling is the reverent ‘love’ people speak of. Your eyelids droop, coaxed by the sultry song of sleep, but you feel fairly confident in your realization that is it.


	5. D is for Dominant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey it’s uh,,, Me again. hope you all enjoyed newsoftheworld’s nice chapters cause this is nothing like that! it’s kinda short but it’s ... very self indulgent i couldn’t help myself. kudos and comments feed my family so, y’all know what to do

Nighttime slowly begins to wither away, shades of darkness giving way to first light - another night completely gone. Exhaustion ripples through your body as you throw back another cup of coffee, liquified beans doing nothing to ease the gnawing feeling of exhaustion on your consciousness.  You detest your constant desire to overachieve; you take the most challenging courses, always putting the utmost effort into every piece of work you produce, but now? You aren’t even sure why. Gathering your tote, you carelessly throw your materials back into it, papers creasing beneath the weight of textbooks; you couldn’t even afford a nap at this point, knowing how long it took for you to commute from the library, to the communal showers, and then halfway across campus to your first class of the day. You dread even having to see him this morning. Professor May - your favorite and least favorite educator rolled into one frustratingly handsome man.

Maybe you could finesse him a little; he liked you well enough to let your bad time-management slide, but you didn’t know how long your doe-eyed facade would keep working on him. At this point? It isn’t entirely beneath you to consider the option of seduction. Besides, the fleeting glances he’d give you on occasion weren’t lost on you. The man couldn't be  _ too _ hard to crack.

You creep into the lecture hall exactly twelve minutes late, harshly dried hair pulled over one shoulder as you try to tiptoe to your seat. You might have arrived sooner had it not been for your roommate and her outstanding loan of your favorite dress. You’re barely to your seat when you finally spot the professor; his hazel eyes watch as you claim your customary seat in the back of the classroom, disappointment a stark contrast on his normally even expression. You silently unpack your tote, palms slick with moisture as footfalls approach your desk; you don’t bother making eye contact, though in the way his arms fold over his chest, he seems to expect you to have done so.

“Since you’ve deemed it unimportant to arrive to my class on time, I’d like you to stay after. Evidently, you need a refresher on the syllabus.”

Embarrassment burns through your veins, coupled with a frustration you’ve never experienced before. You understand his anger, but your own leads you to speak carelessly before you can control yourself.

“Good to know you’d rather waste time picking on me for being late rather than the repeat offenders.”

Your remark earns you a small chorus of ‘ooh’s from the other students, hushed whispers erupting from the desks around you. “You can’t be serious, right? This is only the second or third time I’ve been late to your class so this whole disparaging tone and mockery in front of the entire class is bullshit and you know it.”

Only when your heartbeat returns to a normal pace and the tremors of rage have left your body do you finally look up at him, observing his mixed look of shock and anger. He doesn’t acknowledge your outburst with a response, but the change in his energy is quite clear - you’re almost dreading what he might say once class is dismissed.

Mild panic begins to course through your bloodstream as students begin to file out of the lecture hall at the end of the class period, amusement on their faces as you await your fate from the professor. Once the room is properly vacated, you slowly begin to pack your school supplies away; you think, you  _ hope, _ that prolonging the confrontation might lessen the punishment. Nevertheless, you slowly gather yourself and your thoughts and make the trek to the small office adjacent to the lecture hall. You stand in the office’s doorway, hands nervously twisting the taupe shoulder strap of your bag before you give an apprehensive cough, notifying him of your presence. 

“Come in.” His tone is icier than before. “—and shut the door behind you.”  _ Shit.  _ You’ve really fucked it up this time.

Clammy hands close the heavy door, your body pressed against its solid wood as you wait for him to continue. You deflect your attention elsewhere, giving a slow look around the room. A guitar sits on a stand in the corner—your eyes follow the familiar curve of its dreadnought body. It makes sense that he plays; you’ve observed his hands one too many times to have missed the worn, calloused patches - definitely not the result of teaching alone.

“Are you even listening? This is exactly what I mean. You’re becoming lazy.”  _ Lazy? _ ? “—I know you can do better.”

“I’m... I’m not lazy,” you interject, tone and body language more defensive than necessary. “I don’t feel you should have called me out like that in front of the whole class. You’ve never called anyone else out for being late.” Your eyes meet and the look on his face is almost a challenge, daring you to continue. Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you press on. “ This? This is fine, this is doable; I’m pretty sure everyone was already aware of my lateness when I had to excuse myself past them to get to my seat. Making some sort of example out of me was, like I told you during class, bullshit.”

“So, you’re unhappy with how I decide to conduct my class; a class no one told you to sign up for.” The slow, even rise and fall of his voice grates your already frayed nerves, and builds on the uneasy feeling building in the pit of your stomach. “If you’re this inconvenienced, try not to be late again, or simply find a new class. The choice is yours.”

As fast as the conversation began, it ends. You’re left gasping for words, breath lodged in the back of your throat at his easy dismissal. You hadn’t gotten through to him, and you sure as hell weren’t leaving until you did. Dropping your bag off at your feet,  you lazily run your palms over your blouse, smoothing away pesky wrinkles. You take a reluctant step forward and then another, limbs heavy with the uncertainty of your plan; your steps only slow when you’ve placed yourself on the opposite side of the desk, knees brushing against his arm laid on the armrest. Your doubtfulness is mirrored on the professor’s face; it’s almost as if he’s stunned at your sudden bold streak.

“Listen,” you start, rolling each letter around in your mouth before letting it cascade from your lips. “I think we got off to a very unfortunate start today; your concerns are valid and I shouldn’t … Be up in arms about it.” When the back of your thighs bump against his desk, you methodically lift yourself onto it. You make a display of tucking one leg over the other, spine curving and shoulders raising. You’ve worked enough men over to know how to soften a resolve, though it  _ almost  _ feels beneath you to try your scheme on the professor, of all people.

“So, Brian - you mind if I call you Brian?” Expressions on his face are changing so rapidly, you’re having a hard time reading him. “I offer my most candid of apologies; you’re right and I shouldn’t have tuned up like that. This might seem shallow, but I am truly sorry. Is… Is there anything I could do to remedy this situation?”

Brian is silent- you aren’t even sure he’s breathing. You have half a mind to quietly excuse yourself from the room and put in a petition to transfer out of his class as quickly as possible, but before you can dismount from your perched position, calloused fingertips slowly crawl up your right calf. For once, incredulity spreads across your features; had you honestly done it?

You observe, hoping excitement on your face isn’t as obvious as you feel it is. His fingers mold to the curve of your knee, lifting your right leg up and over your left with effortless precision. Then his touch is gone, leaving your flesh burning in his wake. He reclines in his chair, long legs sprawled out in the tiny space between you and the desk. The edges of his mouth are curled upward in an arrogant smirk; beads of arousal slick the flesh between your legs at his now vain demeanor.

“Get down.” The demand is accompanied with a simple beckon of his finger. Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you carefully slide off the desktop, finding yourself positioned between his slender legs. You’d never confess, but many a time you’ve imagined a scenario similar to this one - the verboten affair between teacher and pupil. You silently drink one another in, eyes brimming with desire. The same lean finger that was on your skin now rotates in the air expectantly; you replicate the motion the best you can, turning until you’re facing the wall. With your back to him now, you feel dreadfully vulnerable; you depended on your ability to read him by touch and sound alone.

The muscles in your thighs quake beneath the fiery touch of his palms, scorching in their ascent up your legs. You lament in your breathless pleas, head falling backwards in elation. When the material of your skirt rises over the swell of your ass, exposing you further, you test the waters by giving a sultry sway of your hips. The action draws him closer, the firmness of his erection pressed snug against your ass. His mouth is a divine murmur against the shell of your ear - a single word reverbing against your eardrum. “ _ Count.”  _ Count what?

Before you have time to process his command, his hand comes down on your ass, cracking the silence with the ringing sensation of flesh against flesh. You’re baffled, mouth ajar as the stinging sensation spreads from the point of contact. A single finger soothes your red hot skin, almost as if he was tracing the outline of the print he’d left. Then his palm comes down with the same intensity as before and this time, you can’t curb the hapless moan that spills from your mouth.

“Two,” you manage to choke out, legs pinching together as if to halt the spread of arousal between your legs. You don’t have time to recover; his hand connects with the same tender spot on your ass again and again, and you keep count as requested. Only when you’ve counted twenty lashings, and your body is throbbing with unbridled desire, does the activity cease.

“That’s a good girl.” You bask in the compliment, but your basking is cut short when a single finger trails the length of your slick panties; you shamelessly buck against his touch, begging for more. 

“Uh uh,” he scolds, fingers pinching the sensitive skin of your thighs. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Don’t get ahead of yourself now.” Your head bobs to show that you understand and when that same finger works itself between your legs, mercilessly pressing against your clit; it takes the rest of your already fragile resolve not to rut against his touch.

“Good girl, that’s it.” His repeated praise brings a lazy smile to your pleasure ridden features; your imagination did a swift injustice to how talented his hands truly are. Your hips shimmy when he guides your panties down to your ankles; his palm returning to the small of your back and delicately navigating you down so your torso is flat against the desk top. 

“Spread your legs. -- More, just a little more. Perfect, good.” With your feet just wider than shoulder-width, you tighten your hold on the desk as his tantalizing touch returns to your inner thighs, kneading and squeezing gently. A silence fills the congested space, anticipation rippling across your burning flesh as the tip of his nose grazes your inner thighs.

The barrage of kisses starts off slow, languid sweeping of his lips and tongue on one leg and then the other. Your lips part to exhale a moan, only for the sound to get caught when his fingers spread you; he exhales a pleasant hum of surprise when his finger slips along your wetness.

“Brian,” comes your quiet lament, muscles quivering helplessly as his middle and forefingers glide over your clit again, working the sensitive bud before quickly replacing the digits with his tongue. The slickness dragging from you clit all the way to your entrance has you rolling onto the balls of your feet, knuckles melting from red to white as your grip on his desk tightens.

As quickly as his touch arrives, it leaves, and you protest immediately, trying to look over your shoulder to see what caused the sudden departure. Palms flatten your legs, widening your stance slightly.  You listen attentively, noting the rustling of fabric, the brush of his shoulders against your legs; he’s turned - altered his position so he can draw himself closer to you. Bliss courses through your bloodstream as his mouth makes contact once more, hands securing themselves around your waist.

You cautiously lift your torso, freeing your shoulders from the restraints of your bra. You carefully cradle one breast, fingers tenderly kneading the flesh as you try and keep tempo with the erratic symphony playing between your legs. Staccato flickers of his tongue cause you to rock onto the balls of your feet, knees pinching together as hands roam around to your hips.

This was bad - beyond bad. You, panties around your ankles, your professor’s head between your legs; it was terrible and you were enjoying every sordid second of it. Feeling particularly brave, you rise from the desk and awkwardly stumble back into his chair, your panties around your ankles making it particularly difficult to produce a fluid movement. Once you’ve freed your feet, you sling one leg over the arm of his chair, gratification instant when lust-heavy eyes follow the curve of your hip, down your leg and back again.

“Come here,” you state simply, rolling your skirt upward into a tidy roll. “Come back here and put that mouth of yours to good use again.”

Amusement dusts his features, cat-like grin doubling in size when he places himself between your legs once more, tongue pressed flat against your inner thigh. As teeth bite and sink into sensitive flesh, the guarantee of bruises to follow only heights your arousal; the idea of your body being marked in places only you could see, places only he had been. Perhaps you were a little giddy about it.

“Don’t think you have an upper hand in my chair,” he reminds, the echo of his voice against your scorched skin drawing a mewl from your lips. “As a matter of fact--”

You watch as he rises to his feet, inquisitive eyes watching as he undresses. Slender arms easily work the few staggered buttons on his shirt, dark swirls of hair struggling to rise past the waistband of his pants. Whatever high power exists truly took their time with him, each part of him sculpted perfectly - flawless. 

You usher yourself into his arms, bewitched by the sudden weight of his mouth on yours. You aren’t sure what you were expecting from his kiss - dominance and teeth perhaps - but there was a kind of unsung tenderness in how his mouth fit against yours; a delicate nature you weren’t expecting in a moment like this. Steady hands assist in placing you on the desktop, guiding you backwards until your back creases the papers beneath you, drawing a timid laugh from your chest.

“I don’t think,” you offer breathlessly, locking your ankles around his waist. “— don’t think the other students would appreciate our coupling on top of their assignments.”

“Then it’s wise we don’t tell them.” An almost boyish light crosses his face when he smiles; you don’t think you’ve ever seen him smile before. A small tweak of his lips here, the bemused smirk there - nothing as genuine as this. 

Your arms reach up, welcoming his body to yours once again. He kisses you with that same listless passion, unhurried in the way his tongue licks its way into your mouth again, only to depart when you feel the tight sensation of him pressing into you, carefully burying himself inch by delicious inch. Your shared kisses become more of shared moans; you eagerly drink in each of his breathless gasps, his faint string of curses. You positively couldn’t get enough of him - and you didn’t want to.

You release his waist, uncrossing your ankles as you allow yourself to lie back on the desk, skin prickling with goosebumps when his fingertips ghost over your rib cage before settling on your hips. Tension has already coiled in your stomach; a very subtle reminder of how you close you came to orgasm before, and how close it was again. You prop your feet up on the edge of the desk, balancing yourself as his hips drive into yours, and through hazy eyes, you try to watch him. Lust captivates his features; a rosy blush dusts high cheekbones, dark eyes so hooded, they almost seem closed. His breaths come in shallow waves, laced with soft moans. You liked that; men you’d encounter before always seemed to have such difficulty in being vocal, but the more you worked Brian over, it seemed, the more comfortable he got - the louder he became.

“Look at you, so pretty for me.” When you realize he’s speaking to you, his hand has left your hip and his thumb, again, circles your clit in frustratingly slow circles. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you? Hm?” You manage to choke out a response, feeling yourself weakly pulse around his cock.

“Mm, I know you are. You’re such a good girl, and so… so pretty-” his words slur into nothingness as another wave of pleasure crashes over him, remaining fingers on your hip bruising the sensitive flesh. As you secure your legs around his waist once more, you want nothing more than to watch him fall apart, to take him all in and watch his body succumb to the highest peaks of pleasure.

You reach completion before he does, and it steamrolls you when it finally arrives. Picking yourself up off the desk, you carefully circle one arm around his neck, burying your fingers in the dense curls just below the crown of his head. Inhibition dissipates as your mouth latches onto his neck, nibbling and sucking along the column of his throat. Initially, you just wanted to see how loud he’d get, how much control he was willing to lose. Now? The thought of him having to cover his neck; the knowledge that you put these marks on him... For one shimmering moment, he belonged to you.

You surrender and let passion claim you; your eyes roll back in your head as your body squeezes around his cock, the action drawing a tight lipped moan from the professor as well. You aren’t sure how close he is, but you roll your hips into his - mostly for his pleasure and satisfaction, but also for the way you clit drags against his cock whenever you pistoned your hips backwards - just the right amount of that would bring you to a second orgasm.

Mild surprise lights up your features when he completely pulls away, face flushed when his gaze meets yours, an almost expectant look on his face. A single finger points to the floor and you carefully climb off the desk, muscles bowing as you carefully sink to your knees.

“That’s my girl. C’mere.” Two bony fingers hook themselves under your chin, canting your head backwards before those two same fingers press their way into your mouth, curling slightly as your tongues glides around them. What’s expected doesn’t need to be explained; you adjust yourself on your knees and close your lips around the head of his cock. Flattening your tongue and trying to relax your jaw the best you can, you cautiously take him, inching down until the familiar burning pressuring in the back of your throat causes you retract. A soft moan rumbles in the back of your throat once he finds his rhythm; it’s not fast, but there’s an erratic nature in the thrusts - a silent signal he was close.

Determined to make sure he feels the same pleasure he’d so graciously given, you draw your cheeks inward and bob your head, faster than his thrusts. You admire your canvas; his eyes rolled back so far, all you could see was white. The soft way his breath hitched when you took him in your mouth completely, the pleasing tones when you gently suckled at the tip. One hand grips the edge of his desk, the other is buried in your hair, fingers clenched so tightly that you fear one wrong move might result in you losing a patch of hair.

“That’s —  _ shit -  _ that’s so good. Right there.” His praise, again, turns to broken gibberish; you almost smile at his broken noises. The hand in your hair relaxes, molding to the back of your skull and pressing gently, holding your head in place as he finally stiffens out. His moans are soft- a reward for your ears only as he spills into your mouth. Admittedly, it’s been a while, longer than you want to admit, since you’ve willingly done this for a guy; most assume you’re okay with it and most are all too offended when you race to the nearest trash can.

Brian wasn’t most guys, though. Completely out of your comfort zone, your eyes pinch together when you relax your throat muscles, apprehensively swallowing. Not entirely disgusted with yourself, you carefully scrub your mouth with the back of your hand, carefully removing the mixture of saliva and other bodily fluids that had mixed and begin to dribble it’s way down your chin. Knees deliciously sore, you rise to your feet with a small wince, only to be greeted by the professor’s smirk.

“I don’t know a lot of girls who do that,” he admits bashfully. That soft, almost timid nature you’re used to from him had returned. You lean into his embrace, nearly enamored when slim fingers roll your skirt back down. “— I wasn’t expecting you to get down like that.”

A quiet sigh fills the space between the two of you and you admire him for a few blissful moments, letting your mouth trek over the sharp line of his jaw. Your teeth gently pulling his earlobe, rewarding you with the softest of moans. “You have an awful lot to learn about me, professor.”


End file.
